


a promise in gray

by diphylleias



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Graduation, M/M, Post-Nationals, Short & Sweet, confessions but not quite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:27:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25119100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diphylleias/pseuds/diphylleias
Summary: The countdown, of sorts, to graduation.
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Comments: 26
Kudos: 136





	a promise in gray

February is half-winter, half-sun, and full starlight, painting bright across the sky even wrapped in the shadows of a loss.

Fukurodani remains unmoved through the weather and unchanged through their defeat. Practice unfolds in its typical comfort, the same way Akaashi’s mother continues to pack her love into homemade lunches, the same way Akaashi folds his legs under the kotatsu to study for a math test, the same way Bokuto spikes to the sound of thunder and turns to him to yell, as if he’s just discovered gold along an unassuming riverbank— _your tosses are the best!_

Something lights fire in his blood and the energy funnels red-hot into his fingertips; Akaashi sets another ball.

As Bokuto flies up and slams the ball down with the weight of the universe at his hands, Akaashi watches through a telescope lens and wishes upon the shooting star for answers to questions that have sprung out the seam of January-February, namely _captaincy? Plans after high school? Practice spikes with me?_

Bokuto puffs his chest out. “That one was good, wasn’t it?”

“It was,” Akaashi just affirms calmly, and allows the corner of his mouth to curve up minutely. Bokuto beams at him in response.

“Man,” Komi complains, wandering in close and raising his voice to be heard. “Karasuno’s gonna be a tough one to beat next year, though.” He shoots Akaashi a sharp, familiar grin. “Good luck with that, Akaashi. They’re all yours.”

Bokuto says something that sounds like _Hinata_ and _jump_ and _ace?_

But Komi’s voice cracks open reality and drops Akaashi into a wide crater of thought as he stares quietly down at red hands. The flush of practice sprawls across his skin as if to swallow him whole. As if to race against time. As if to stretch and mold and fill in the aching gaps that will undoubtedly be left behind by the departure of the third-years.

The weight of their looming goodbye is far from surprising. The knowledge had taken root sometime between his first and second year, but now the dwindling time is bursting out the soil, shaping into something tall and broad, something unavoidable. His hands look back at him quietly, thoughtfully.

The callouses on his palm are so familiar. The future is not. _But_ , Akaashi thinks distantly, this is how volleyball has always unfolded: uncertain of the next move, next point, next play.

And still they move forward with certainty—always. The roots loosen their grip in his chest minutely, as familiar rambling tugs on his attention. “—and then I got Tsukki’s number from Hinata, but when I tried to text him he told me he’d _block_ me, Akaashi! What the heck! That’s so mean!”

“Kuroo-san blocked you last week as well,” Akaashi says flatly. Bokuto splutters immediately, but Akaashi cuts him off, thoughts elsewhere. “Bokuto-san, you’ve been quite a mentor for those two. From Karasuno.”

“Really? Ya think so?”

“Hinata and Tsukishima have improved a great deal.”

“Hell yeah!” Bokuto cheers. A pause, and then, “Oh! What about you, then?” Bokuto leans over and cuts crisp into Akaashi’s space, a grin inching across his face. “Am _I_ your mentor, Akaashi?”

Akaashi’s regards him quietly for a heartbeat. His teeth glint starlight bright along his smile. Like the first sun-washed days of July, or center court at nationals, or his brilliant, mid-air form, swinging at a volleyball and hurdling into Akaashi’s orbit at fourteen-years-old. Akaashi raises a clumsy hand and wipes memories away with sweat, washes down the past with a sip of cold bottled water.

“I would say you’re more than that, Bokuto-san.” 

Bokuto blinks, and stardust slides along his eyelashes. Akaashi's fingers itch to dip into the galaxy. 

“Nice!” Bokuto exclaims, and pumps his fists. He looks incredibly pleased with himself.

“Nice,” Akaashi echoes thoughtlessly. 

Bokuto has already whirled around and leapt ahead. Akaashi follows in the shadows as their worn feet carry them back to the court. “’Kaashi,” he’s saying, voice floating through the air. “Can we do extra practice today again?”

Somewhere in the distance, Konoha does not bother to hide a loud grunt of disapproval. The sound, as with Komi’s easy smile, as with Bokuto’s golden, galaxy-collecting eyes, twines tight around Akaashi’s chest and pushes his heart against his ribcage where he’s forced to listen to the steady rhythm of his pulse. It contracts with something tender, relaxes with warm-blooded familiarity, reminds him that February is not quite over just yet. 

“Of course,” he replies, as he always does.

Bokuto’s face lights up again, blindingly bright—as it always does.

+

Mid-February brings a candy-red crayon heart traced around the number fourteen.

Akaashi receives two boxes of chocolate, one wrapped in a quaint, pleasant shade of pink, the other in lilac, and turns down both confessions with all the quiet, hesitant candor of a teenage boy and none of the grace he saves for the court.

A classmate angles his chin and grins at him, cat-like and bright. “Popular, huh?”

Akaashi’s mouth must do a strange dance on his face because the classmate, _Akihito_ , he remembers, just barks out a loud laugh.

His lips part in protest before a loud noise slices into the second-year hallway and the human incarnate of _popular_ dashes over at breakneck speed, eyes wild and pinned on him.

The amount of chocolate tucked under Bokuto’s arms, in his pockets, over his sleeves, near his chest where he’s holding them tightly, envelops him like a pink-red cloud and the sight is near comical. Akihito snorts next to him.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi starts, confused. Polka-dot wrapping tugs on his vision.

“Akaashi!” Bokuto’s mouth stretches into an infinite smile. “Coach says we’re still missing the first-years’ forms!”

Akaashi blinks up at the bright, seemingly-misplaced expression. “Oh,” he says, and then pauses. “Those are still in my bag. I can hand them in later.”

Bokuto’s head bobs up and down in understanding. He grins again, and Akaashi’s eyes strain with effort to hold the blistering smile.

“Okay,” Bokuto chirps, and then he’s dashing off. “See you later, Akaashi!”

The red-pink bundle of chocolates and starry eyes rushes away, and leaves a sprawling cavity of silence in its wake. Akaashi stares after him for a moment, mind caught on Bokuto’s unbuttoned uniform blazer, the shine of his teeth.

Akihito shifts beside him. “That’s the volleyball captain, right?” A light, tinkling laugh. “That was a _lot_ of chocolates, man.”

Akaashi nods along. Examines his own two boxes, colors looking muted and dull. “Bokuto-san is very popular. He received a lot last year as well.”

“Did you see his pockets, too? I’ll bet he got double this year, considering.”

Akaashi blinks. “Considering?”

A flicker of sunlight cuts open his thoughts. He turns to face the window pane the two of them are standing near, eyes drawn to unexpected February warmth and the gentle flutter of the leaves as they wave hello at him.

“Well, you know,” Akihito just shrugs, pushing the weight of his cheek against a palm as he looks out the window as well. “He’s a third-year, after all.”

+

And then February falls abruptly into March, and something in the stars tumbles sharp out of alignment.

“Bokuto-san, your tie is crooked.” 

“Oh shoot,” comes the expected reply. And then the unexpected: “Akaashi, can ya tie it for me?”

Akaashi pauses. Blinks. Feels his lips tug downwards with the weight of gray-blue confusion. “Bokuto-san,” he says, flat. “You know how to tie ties by yourself.”

“Well, yeah,” Bokuto huffs. “But they always end up crooked.”

Akaashi’s brows draw together as his mind flips through a neat, organized list of Bokuto’s traits. Nowhere hidden between the lines of memory-written notes does it read _asking others for help before trying himself_ , or _suddenly admitting to a weakness (?),_ or _cannot tie ties (???)._

“Helloooo? Earth to Akaashi?”

He sighs. Turns around. Stops trying to make sense of someone who has never bothered to follow the universe’s rules, anyways, and says, “Fine.”

And so the first day of March finds Akaashi’s cold fingers sliding along a pale Fukurodani blue—each careful wrap and tuck and fold of fabric like a steady, ticking timebomb counting down the days to graduation. Near his hands, Bokuto’s presence radiates comfort, and the minutes trickle slow and steady as Akaashi ties the final knot.

Bokuto beams at him when he finishes. “Thanks, Akaashi.”

Akaashi nods silently, steps away from familiar warmth, and they enter the gym together. Routine.

But. Not quite routine, because the countdown ticks extraordinarily loud in the chambers of his mind. Distinct, creeping unease snakes under Akaashi’s skin, and when bright light filters in through the windows, instead of volleyball his thoughts fumble over the white of a smile, the white of a uniform shirt, the white of Bokuto’s hair. 

Not enough to be seen plainly, but enough that his fingers feel out of place where they’re anchored to his hand, and seem to protest when he sets another ball. It arcs perfectly; his stomach is still churning.

“Are you havin’ an off day, Akaashi?” Bokuto peers at him. 

Konoha makes an incredulous noise. “Huh? He’s fine, Bokuto, what do you—"

“I’m fine, Bokuto-san.” Akaashi cuts in firmly. “I was just… distracted.” Bokuto stares at him, curious, the distance between them dwindling down to nothing as Akaashi looks back into bright eyes. “It’s fine.” 

Konoha’s face falls somewhere between surprised and exasperated, and Akaashi just barely holds back a small sile. Even he forgets, sometimes, just how oddly capable Bokuto is at reading people—the intelligence behind the bravado, the keen owl eyes observing long through the dark.

“Cool!” Bokuto just grins, and stretches a sure hand out. He passes over a water bottle.

When their fingers brush, heat flares up across Akaashi’s skin and the slightest of frowns presses down on his mouth at the way his nerves jump. Bokuto has always been warm, but today the touch burns white-hot against the light blue of a tie, against the scant remaining days of the school year, scorches deep into Akaashi’s chest.

Bokuto turns and says something ridiculous to Konoha that Akaashi isn’t paying attention to. Against all odds, he finds his hands aching to skim against starlight again, molten fire and comfort bundled in a single touch.

Something subtle, something slight changes on the very first day of the last month of everything.

Akaashi, logically, chooses not to dwell on it.

+

Until mid-march finally arrives in a pink-white blend of cherry blossoms and goodbyes.

When Bokuto receives his diploma, uniform blazer unbuttoned, loose tie flapping around in the breeze, he puffs out his chest and points at the crowd and yells out a loud, echoing _YEAH!!_ , the sound blaring across all of Japan. His little pose evokes laughter, smiles, snorts all the same.

Regardless of the stage, Akaashi realizes, Bokuto only shines infinitely brighter each time.

Akaashi endures hair ruffles from Sarukui and Komi, a slap on the back from Konoha, a solemn hand on the shoulder from Washio—buoyant laughter and warm smiles that embrace him dearly and distract from the scrolls they hold between their fingers. Trapped inside his ribcage, the whisper of a small smile breaks free and paints across his face.

A loud yell. “ _Akaaaaashi!”_

“Oh boy,” Konoha mutters. It sounds fond.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi greets quietly. His heartstrings pull taut. “Congratulations.”

And then a volleyball is being pulled from thin air and shoved unceremoniously in his face. “Practice spikes with me?” Bokuto grins, almost sheepish.

The remainder of the third-years chorus in soft, familiar laughter. The sound blankets around them, carving out a volleyball-shaped pocket of existence among the gaggle of students, and Akaashi revels in the comfort for possibly the last time.

Eventually, though, the stitching undoes itself and threads fall away one by one, the remaining third-years squeezing him tight and offering warm words and exiting their little corner in a blur of promises, smiles, waves. Until the lone star at the center of it all beams at him and holds out a slightly dirtied ball in request.

Akaashi sighs. They move away from the clamor to a small, quiet patch of grass hidden behind the corner. Another tiny pocket of existence. But more muted, more hidden. Dull skies and soft green.

There are no nets. Akaashi has to push up the sleeves of his tired-gray uniform blazer for lack of movement. A breath in. A breath out. He sets the ball.

Bokuto flies up and his hand connects in perfect tandem, in perfect shape, and when the ball slams down into the dirt something cold and worn dislodges in Akaashi’s chest and slowly, quietly, his heart begins to leak.

Bokuto cheers. “Your tosses are the best!”

His smile reflects sunlight despite the overcast sky. Warmth and ease and aching familiarity soak into Akaashi’s skin, but the force of it all suffocates, and it’s hard to breathe, abruptly, unspoken sentiment clamping down firm on his chest. Emotion he hesitates to name.

Akaashi realizes a beat too late that he’s staring. “Thank you,” he says quickly.

The ball has rolled away against a wall. He waits for the inevitable send-off. Locks away the tight, stuttering feeling that must have sprung out of the blue of Bokuto’s tie and taken root in his stomach, growing too fast, too large.

And then, all at once, Bokuto is throwing himself at Akaashi.

Volleyball style, razor-sharp focus, _throws_ himself brazenly at Akaashi not a care in the world as he enters his space.

Akaashi moves away instantly. Reflexively. Defensively. Heart leaps into his throat as Bokuto collides with air instead. The older stumbles, pauses, and frowns at him.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi exhales slowly. Swallows down his pulse. “What are you doing?”

Bokuto tilts his head, staring. Then, as if Akaashi has just asked him if he likes volleyball, if it is March, if the sky is blue, says, "Uh, I was gonna hold your hand?"

The sky is decidedly not blue, Akaashi thinks. It must be some bizarre blend of green and purple and apples and owls to have allowed Bokuto's words to drop into the universe and split reality in two. "Bokuto-san." He tries again, voice strained. “You—”

But then Bokuto _pounces_ , eyes sharpened with fire, and Akaashi finds himself dodging once more, bewilderment and nerves and the hard, heavy thud of his heart against his chest.

“Aw man!” Bokuto’s lips turn down with disappointment. “I thought I'd get it this time.” He squints down at Akaashi’s hand, as if sizing it up.

"Bokuto-san." Akaashi takes an unsteady breath in. "This,” A long pause. His nerves have not stopped screaming. “This is not volleyball.”

Though he's not exactly sure what _this_ entails. His hands, for once, feel shaky.

Bokuto scowls, familiar petulance as his mouth puckers. “I know that, Akaashi, geez.”

Akaashi’s stomach knots, unknots, ties, unties. He summons the cold wash of logic and rationality and lets it hold his heart at bay as he says, as calm as he can muster, “You are probably just… overcome with emotion by the graduation ceremony. This will—” He hesitates. “It will pass.”

An offended look graces his vision. “ _What?!_ That’s not true.” Bokuto puffs out his chest, stares him down like an opponent. “I started thinking ‘bout it last week, Akaashi!” He sounds unreasonably proud. “ _Last week!”_

The sky is green, Akaashi thinks, a little desperately. It must be. But his eyes flit away to find a dull, gray-blue layer of clouds instead of green and when they return Bokuto is still grinning bright and proud and golden in front of him, unwavering.

“Bokuto-san,” he tries one final time, helpless.

“Nuh- _uh!_ ” Bokuto brandishes a confident finger. “I already told you, I’ve gotten better at rebutting your rebuttals, Akaashi!” His smile lifts up, up through the roof of whatever barrier they’ve already broken through and left behind in shambles. “Try me!”

Akaashi’s tongue sits uselessly in his mouth. He blinks once, twice. Three times.

“I know what you’re thinkin’,” Bokuto declares suddenly. He looks immensely self-satisfied. “You're thinking. _It’s never gonna work!_ And.” His voice goes somber, lips pull into a flat line, says gravely and in an awful imitation: “ _But Bokuto-san is graduating_. Right? _Right?_ I’m totally right.”

“I do not sound like that,” Akaashi mutters immediately. His face feels hot.

Bokuto shushes him loudly. “But you never know ‘til you try!” Again with the blinding smile. “Weren’t you the one who told me to always be at, like, a hundred percent, or something?” 

Words fail him. Akaashi stares blankly at the boy in front of him and watches as Bokuto’s cheeks color, but continues to stare back at him in challenge. Confidence radiating. Standing as if he’s the center of the solar system, as if trying to hold Akaashi’s hand is simply another common, accepted law of gravity.

“ _Akaashi_ ,” Bokuto pouts when he doesn’t respond, face steadily growing more flushed. His eyes are still shining like he’s planning to charge in and emerge victorious with Akaashi’s hand as his prize. Akaashi swallows. Forces himself to speak in fear of doing something very, very stupid, like letting Bokuto do exactly that.

“I think,” he pauses, holds Bokuto’s wide-eyed gaze, considers. Considers again. Logic points towards a very successful volleyball career for a top-five ace. Not-logic is dangling its legs from where its seated atop Akaashi’s stuttering heart and laughing loud in his face.

He settles at the crossroads. “I think that it is best to… wait, Bokuto-san.”

Bokuto deflates. Something kicks his stomach and Akaashi opens his mouth again.

Until the other abruptly rockets back up and a wide grin smears all over his face, dazzling. “OKAY!”

Akaashi startles in confusion, but Bokuto is already pointing another steady finger at him again, aiming clean into his chest, carving sentiment into his heart. “YOU BETTER WAIT, AKAASHI!!” The finger doesn’t waver. “JUST YOU WAIT.”

Akaashi blinks. Has no idea what cosmic pool of nonsense he’s waded himself into this time. Finds himself nodding slowly, surely, anyways, lost in bright eyes and the sheer warmth of Bokuto’s words, eyes, presence.

Bokuto squints at him. "Promise you're gonna wait?"

A sigh that pulls the weight of the universe with it escapes Akaashi's lips. He resigns himself to never outgrowing a childhood astronomy obsession and the unending wish to cradle the stars between his worn, calloused hands. Bokuto peers at him anxiously. It’s endearing.

“I promise," Akaashi says finally, defeated. The warmth in his cheeks burns through skin, through time, through galaxies.

Bokuto just grins wide in response.

And with all that he has, Akaashi straightens up tall and sure, and matches the starlight smile with one of his own.

**Author's Note:**

> hello this was written after rereading chaps 331-337 and losing my MIND. how is that shit legal. anyways. thank u as always for reading. mwah. comments n kudos are always appreciated <3
> 
> \+ find me on [twt](https://twitter.com/nebulousys) or talk to me [here](https://curiouscat.qa/sunakomo)!


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